


Compensate, Compliment, & Fashion

by anonymousorly



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fashion & Couture, Fashion Show, Judge Louis, London Fashion Week, M/M, Sassy Louis, front row/frows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:18:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousorly/pseuds/anonymousorly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I could strut better than that blond bitch can. Hell, I <i>know</i> I can. I mean, look at her stomp, Haz. Look at it! Isn't that the most horrendous thing since Godzilla?! And I don't think that lizard had knees!"</p><p>[Louis attends his first fashion show and judges everyone before judging himself.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compensate, Compliment, & Fashion

Louis sits down on the padded wooden chair that's in the front row and has his name printed across a piece of paper, reaching behind and plucking it from it's attached tape. Stare far off and eyebrow slightly raised, he crumples it into a ball noisily before dropping it and allowing it to roll onto the center of the runway. The corners of his lips curl into an amused smirk.  
  
Not one heartbeat passes before a woman with a clipboard and headset, dressed in tall black heels and a tight black dress, rushes over to pick the paper up. She sends a glare to Louis and slams the paper against her clipboard for emphasis of her annoyance but Louis pays her no mind, eyes focused forward and at nothing in particular. She grunts as she stomps away and Louis chuckles to himself.  
  
Harry sits down beside him, on the left, and turns his body toward him, eyebrows creased. "What was that?"  
  
"What was what?" Louis counters monotonously, simultaneously reaching for Harry's hand but not looking at him.  
  
"I saw, you dumbass," Harry mutters and traps Louis' small hand between his much larger ones, resting them on his knee.  
  
Louis' eyebrow arches higher as a considerable mass amount of people noticably start to drift in and take their seats. His eyes flicker up to those that leisurely saunter by and bearly miss stepping on his toes, the landing of their too expensive stilettos and loafers of no concern to them as they flaunt their luxurious attire and vain pride at being seated in the front row. Clashing cologne and perfume aromas ascend up his nostrils and rapidly circulate like a cyclone around his brain, dizzy from the mixture and disgusted from the pompousness.  
  
Just above the single closed button, Louis tugs on the right lapel to readjust his dark gray jacket as well as his posture. His hips jut forward to curve his lower back and chest protrudes to straighten his spine, shoulders mindfully dropped and pushed back. His thighs and knees line up but unlike the majority of his male counterparts that include bombastic patricians and sophisticated fashion elite, his calves are not separated by flat feet but instead crossed from the top of one shoe leaning against the back of the other.  
  
The only other person not conformed to that polish standard and presenting himself in a levelheaded, non-deliberate manner is Harry; sweet, sweet Harry that has his eyes and attention aimed at Louis, body slouched and curled with sharp angles, and not aware of the social disparity which sets them apart. He views the audience not as upper-class royalty but acquaintances with a shared interest and the fashion show not as a social climbing photo-op but as an event he enjoys and can share with Louis, who is more perceptive and observant about the reality.  
  
Chin tilted up, Louis finally turns his head and looks at Harry. "Saw what?"  
  
Harry rolls his eyes, lines up his arms and elbows flush to Louis', and leans forward until the tips of their noses are almost in contact. Like a student whispering to avoid getting yelled at by the teacher, Harry quietly says, "You caused trouble for that poor lady."  
  
The overhead lights flash three times. Those already seated situate themselves properly and those that were still standing and mingling rush to their assigned chairs.  
  
Louis presses a short kiss to Harry's lips and whispers back, "I haven't any idea what you are referring to."  
  
As much as Harry tries to prevent it, the corners of his mouth twitch upward in amusement and admiration. The action was so typical Louis and the fact that they were in attendance at such a high-end fashion show for a luxurious fashion house didn't change him or his behavior, which Harry found commendable. Though he didn't show or acknowledge it, he was aware that they were out of their element in this environment of money, pride, and vanity. However, as he mostly did in his life, he paid no mind to the unimportance around him and fixated upon what mattered.  
  
What mattered now was his interest in fashion and Louis.  
  
The overhead lights dim and the static noise of the audience quiets so considerably that Louis didn't even realize how loud it had been. Music with thumping bass and trance-like electric melodies fills the room at a high volume and the runway lights turn up as the first model walks out, applause breaking out.  
  
Harry claps along with them, arms still hooked around Louis', who pushes his confusion aside and pats his hands together from Harry's knee.  
  
The model walks passed them and their eyes are transfixed on her, roaming up and down her body to take in every detail. Her stick straight black hair that falls to the top of her neck, the sleeveless tan dress that hangs loose on her body, a low relaxed V-neck bunched between her breasts, the open back that reveals a scary spine when she reaches the pool of cameras at end of the runway, her long pale legs extending bright blue pumps, the tips of her fingers the same blue as she makes her way back and passed the next model.  
  
Model after model, outfit after outfit, garmets and shoes and purses and struts and poses and flowing hair and extreme makeup and hips...  
  
Their mesmerizing appearance and captivating presence wears off from Louis fairly quickly. After the seventh model emerges and does her round, he wrinkles his nose at her and scans her judgingly as she walks passed. Then, without consciously realizing, he does it to every model after.  
  
"They are horrible."  
  
Harry blinks in disbelief at him, hands still on his knee. "What?"  
  
Louis shakes his head and Harry leans over to hear, "They aren't that good. Like, their ankles look like they're about to break from lifting those heavy shoes and those handbags are wider than their waists."  
  
Harry sits back but still turned in Louis' direction. "They're models. The industry wants them that way."  
  
"I can't see why." He tilts his chin at one model in particular, unimpressed by her dress and walk. "If all skinny models are like this, I'd imagine that they'd want a woman who weighs five more pounds but can actually fucking model clothes instead."  
  
Harry laughs, he can't help it, and presses his face to Louis' shoulder as the outburst dies down to a chuckle.  
  
The music around them is blaring and deafens their conversation as well as anyone elses. Editors exchange comments before speaking to their assistants, who write down what they say as well as their own observant notes. Celebrities discuss ensembles and point at certain pieces, taking out their smartphones once or twice to photograph or message. Socialities attentively examine the models while keeping a secondary eye on the other socialites, tabloid photographers, and front row occupants.  
  
As for them, Louis begins to commentate about every single model and outfit while Harry attempts to keep a straight face, which disappears not long after it's been achieved and transforms into a grin.  
  
   "I could rock those shorts better than she can. And I have a cock. Granted, those shorts would be rocking against your hips...as I wear them."  
    (Harry blushes, imagines.)  
  
   "So, those boots? Yeah, they're for chicks, but they have a touch of masculinity to 'em. You'd look sexy in 'em, with your thin calves and long legs."  
    (Harry shrugs, doesn't disagree.)  
  
   "I could strut better than that blond bitch can. Hell, I _know_ I can. I mean, look at her stomp, Haz. Look at it! Isn't that the most horrendous thing since Godzilla?! And I don't think that lizard had knees!"  
    (Harry howls, slaps a hand over his mouth.)  
  
   "That one's not even all that pretty. Like, she genuinely thinks she is, but she's not."  
    (Harry slowly shakes his head, rationalizes to defend, "It's her job. Insecure models at London Fashion Week?")  
   "There's a difference between projecting confidence for work and projecting confidence for your wrongly inflated ego, Harry."  
  
   "Okay, on 'America's Next Top Model,' Tyra pretty much drills into their head to focus on the runway and ignore the audience. I'm pretty sure I remember the contestants getting sprayed with silly string and they had to keep going, keep a straight face, disregard the judges. Right, now, explain to me why that model's eyes shifted to me and glared as she came by. Because that isn't very professional and Tyra would have a hissy fit if she was here."  
    (Harry laughs, catches the model's glare toward Louis when she walks by again, and only laughs harder, doesn't say that it's probably because these models know he's criticizing every one of them.)  
  
"I could be such a better model," Louis softly remarks, more to himself yet Harry catches every word, "but what they have that I never will...is height. And, well, thinness, too, if I'm being entirely honest."  
  
Then, he tears his eyes away from his judgmental entertainment and to the love of his life. "That's why I have you. You make up for everything I'm not."  
  
"No," Harry breathes out and lies a bony hand over Louis' cheek, palm cupped under his jaw. "I don't make up for anything. Louis, the reason you have me is to bring out what you already have; who you already are. Our relationship isn't to compensate but compliment."  
  
Louis melts, eyes wide and expression soft. His fingers squeeze Harry's knee from under the other slender hand and formal posture breaks so he can bring their foreheads together. Being who he was, he jests, "You're a real charming cheeseball, love, you know that?" before kissing him gently and mumbling seriously, "That was beautiful."  
  
"That was the truth." Harry smiles easily and kisses Louis again, longer, with full awareness of the redirected eyes and rapid camera flashes.  
  
Louis realizes that Harry wasn't (and isn't) as oblivious as he had once suspected, if the smirk he feels against his lips is any indication. He maybe realizes, too, that fashion shows with pretentious attendees aren't so terrible - as long as Harry's with him.


End file.
